


the horror of our love

by starsaregoingout (abovetheruins)



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Biting, Blood, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Human/Monster Romance, Other, Reader-Insert, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-01-21 06:04:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12451134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/starsaregoingout
Summary: Various Pennywise x Reader oneshots. Expect plenty of interdimensional monster clown lovin', most of it vicious and none of it pretty.Main tags apply for the entire collection; individual warnings for each chapter will be included in the chapter notes! Gender of the reader is ambiguous unless stated otherwise.





	1. i. swings in my lungs

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by anon: _Maybe pennywise facefucking you to the point where you can’t breathe?_
> 
> Warnings: Facefucking, choking

Splinters bite at your knees from the broken floorboards, the long fingers curled around your cheeks digging hard into the sensitive skin behind your ears. Your mouth feels stretched out and sore already, saliva pooling on your tongue and dripping down your chin, and your breath sticks in your throat no matter how often you swallow. The whole experience is rough and gritty and degrading; you long for a soft surface beneath your knees, would even settle for the dirty mattress in the corner of the dilapidated room, but your comfort isn't the priority here. _You're_ not the priority here.

Not to the creature curled over you. Not to Pennywise the Dancing Clown. 

Right now you're just a means to an end, or an amusing distraction, or maybe just a toy. You suppose the only thing that matters is that you've crossed his path and are still alive to tell it, at least for now, and maybe you should be grateful for that much.

But there's gratitude, and then there's _this_ , you kneeling between the clown's spread thighs, your fingers clenching fistfuls of his dirty costume and your lips wrapped around his cock, struggling to swallow as he fills your mouth again and again.

He's perched on a rickety old chair pilfered from somewhere in the house, and the legs creak ominously each time his long, lanky body shifts above you. The jingle of bells and his own hissing breaths combines with the scrape of wood against wood to create a cacophony of sound that echoes in the empty house, inordinately loud in your ears. You can hear your own rushed, strangled breaths, too, and your face burns at the muffled whimpers you can't help but make.

You feel the sharp points of nails digging through silk gloves and into your skin, and you raise wet eyes to peer at the creature curled over you, your pulse pounding at the sight of his face hovering bare inches above your own. Hungry amber eyes bore into yours, unblinking and paralyzing in their intensity, even as one blazing iris drifts slightly out of alignment. His painted mouth hangs slack and open, drool bubbling on his swollen bottom lip, and you shudder as you watch the tip of his tongue curl against his large front teeth.

You shudder with _fear_. Fear of him, a fear that remains constant no matter how docile he pretends to be. Fear of his hands, powerful enough to rip you apart. Fear of his teeth, the thousand needle-sharp fangs that can burst from his gums and swallow you whole. Fear of his manic laughter and endless hunger and the bottomless well of his cruelty.

And fear of _yourself_ , that you can look at such a creature and feel a hot spark of desire in your gut regardless of every instinct telling you to _run_. Fear that you can submit so thoroughly to a monster. A killer. Fear that you _want_ to.

Pennywise's nostrils flare, a low, rumbling sound echoing from the depths of his throat, and your grip on his thighs tightens as his hips snap faster, harder, the tip of his cock bumping against the back of your throat and making your eyes water. 

"Such sweet fear," he growls, saliva dripping from his open mouth. His eyes roll in their sockets as he breathes it all in, curls his tongue around the taste of it, and you whimper as your mouth fills with the sharp, pungent taste of his release. 

Your throat constricts around his sex. Fluid fills your mouth, too much and too fast for you to swallow quickly enough, and you beat your fists against Pennywise's thighs as grey spots fill your vision, panic swirling in your blood until you're nauseous with it.

You see his painted lips curl into a smile through blurry, streaming eyes, and it's only as your beating fists begin to slow, your body succumbing to its lack of air, that he pulls free of your mouth and allows you to fall away from his bruising grip. 

You hit the floor with a thick, wet gasp, clawing at the broken floorboards as you struggle to suck in great lungfulls of air. Your mouth hangs open, lips wet and swollen, the taste of the clown clinging to your tongue as you stare bleary-eyed at the ceiling. You're filthy and sore and afraid.

And yet heat still sparks in your belly as Pennywise falls to all fours and crawls towards you. Covers you. Surrounds you, until there's no where to go. No escape. 

So you do the only thing you can. The only thing you _want_.

You succumb.


	2. ii. every claim you stake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one actually asked for this but I read some possessive!Pennywise headcanons and had to Get On That
> 
> Warnings: Implied child death, marking

People in town steer clear of you these days. Shopkeepers eye you suspiciously when you open their doors, push your change across the counter rather than handing it directly to you. The other passengers on the bus scrunch away from you, tuck themselves against the windows or each other to avoid brushing against you. 

It's worse with the kids. The adults try to hide their unease behind a guise of chilly politeness. The kids don't bother. They cross the street to avoid walking past you, whisper feverishly behind your back. Once a boy threw a rock at you; it had glanced off the back of your shin, a sharp sting that had drawn a few drops of blood. You hadn't reacted. You hadn't needed to. The look of shocked terror on his face had matched yours. It had been an impulsive act, made without thought, but it would cost him.

When the newest missing poster went up a week later, you'd avoided looking at the photo plastered across it, nausea swirling in your gut as you'd remembered the fear on the kid's face.

Because the whole town knew - knew without truly _knowing_ \- that you were marked. The adults could sense it, but the kids - the kids could _see_ it. Because the kids knew what had marked you. _Who_ had marked you.

And it was better for them all - safer for them all - if they gave you a wide berth. It was safer for you, too. Isolation was a small price to pay for that. 

But there were always mishaps. Accidents. A shoulder brushing against yours in the library stacks. A pothole in the road causing someone on the bus to stumble into you. A cashier forgetting himself and pressing your change into the palm of your hand rather than on the counter.

Innocent follies that meant nothing, yet they left their mark.

No, their scent. 

And _he_ didn't like that.

You shudder against the cold, damp wall of the sewer pipe, your shoes wet with stagnant, foul-smelling water. A red nose presses into the underside of your jaw, following the arch of your throat down to the jut of your collarbone and pushing into the fabric over your shoulder.

You swallow hard, torn between pressing yourself against the cold concrete at your back and pushing yourself into the long line of warmth at your front. "He didn't mean to," you start, your voice echoing strangely in the long tunnel of the sewer pipe. It breaks, trails off into a shaky gasp as painted lips curl over your shoulder, the sharp points of teeth shredding through cloth and pricking your skin, but you brace yourself, try again. "He just ran into me, almost knocked me over. That's all." He'd been older, hadn't been watching where he was going, and he'd knocked your shoulder with his, spilling your books onto the floor. 

He'd apologized, helped you pick them up, and patted your shoulder before going on his way. It was _nothing_.

A sharp, angry growl rumbles against your flesh, teeth gnawing at your shoulder like a dog with a chew toy. They haven't broken skin, not yet, but just a hint of pressure, just a twitch of muscle, and your blood will spill. 

So you go still, clamping your lips shut. There's no point in offering excuses. No use in defending yourself. He won't listen. He won't _care_. The only thing he cares about is the scent of _other_ on your clothes, on your skin, not just the man that had bumped into you but everything else, too. The mingled scents of _people_ , of the world outside, of sunlight and crisp autumn wind and dead leaves. 

All of it has to _go_. There's only one scent he'll tolerate on you. His.

The hands wrapped around your hips tighten, the only warning you get before you're lifted from the water and tossed over a broad, hard shoulder. You clench your fingers in stained ruffles and bury your face in dirty silk, closing your eyes as you're carried out of the pipe and into the cavernous space where he's constructed his lair, a towering monolith of discarded toys, abandoned scraps of clothing, and broken furniture. You know it had all belonged to someone at some point, that each piece in his macabre collection had come from a victim he'd consumed. One day, you know you'll join them. You wonder what piece of you he'll toss on the pile. You wonder how long it'll take for him to forget about you entirely.

You grunt as you're lifted onto the stage at the bottom of the tower, your tailbone bumping painfully against the wooden base before he presses you flat with his own body, the bells on his costume ringing faintly as he cages you in with his long limbs, buries his face once more in the curve of your shoulder. 

You're braced for it, but the sudden bite of his teeth pricking your skin makes you cry out, a strangled gasp of pain that you quickly suffocate with the palm of your hand, pressing it hard against your mouth as he clenches his powerful jaws around a chunk of your flesh. Warmth flows from the fresh wound, seeping into your torn clothing, and you suck in mouthfuls of damp, cold air as a long, wet tongue slides over your broken skin.

The wound won't be visible to anyone but you and him. Even if you bared your shoulder to the rest of the town, no one would see a thing. But that doesn't matter. Not to him. It's the act that carries meaning. It's the knowledge that _you'll_ feel it, just as you've felt every mark he's ever given you - each bite, each scrape of nails across your hips or ass or thighs, each mottled bruise sucked into the flesh of your throat or the small of your back. It's the surety that you'll _know_ who you belong to, each time your clothes brush against the wounds or you catch the scent of sweetness and decay on your skin. 

Each mark is a _brand_ , a blazing neon sign that you belong to Pennywise. You'll never belong to anyone else. He'll kill you first.

He'll kill you anyway.


	3. iii. waves that swallow quick and deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon: _if you're still doing drabble requests, would you mind doing something with penny's grabby hands and silence play?_
> 
> Warnings: dub-con
> 
> Female!Reader

You're alone in the back of the library, idly scanning the science fiction shelves when you feel something brush against your shoulder. You turn your head, thinking it may be the librarian come to usher you out - she'd warned you when you came in that the library was closing up in half an hour, though it's only been half that time since you started pacing the stacks - but there's no one there. No footsteps or breath to indicate anyone's around you, either.

A cold chill rattles your spine as you stare up and down the empty aisle. Evening has fallen fast outside the windows; shadows creep steadily across the floor towards your feet, reaching for you. Like hands.

You swallow. "Pennywise?" you whisper, fear making your voice tremble. 

No one answers you. You wait for the shadows lengthening across the floor to morph into hands or teeth or some nightmarish beast, or for blood to bubble from the pages of the books stacked around you, but nothing happens. You release a slow breath, the tension easing from your shoulders. Satisfied that you're alone, you reach for a title that had caught your eye earlier -

\- and scream as arms wrap around your waist from behind, pulling you hard against the bookcase at your back.

You have time to suck in a breath and shoot a panicked glance down at the long arms wrapped around you before the librarian rounds the corner, a pile of books in her arms and her face pinched in annoyance.

"What's happened?" she asks, scanning the aisle and giving you a flat look. Her eyes never even flicker to the limbs wrapped around you. 

"A-a-a spider," you choke out, wincing as the arms tighten around you, pressing your spine uncomfortably against the shelf. "A big one. It surprised me, I'm sorry about screaming - "

The librarian huffs. "It's fine. Just keep it down, will you? This is a library, you know." She flicks her eyes towards one of the posters tacked to the wall, emblazoned with red letters spelling out _Please keep quiet in the library_. 

You nod quickly, wheezing out a breath as the arms around you _squeeze_. "R-right. Sorry. I'll keep it down."

The librarian nods, shifting her grip on the books cradled in her arms. "Good. And be quick, would you? We're closing in fifteen minutes."

"I will, I'm - " She twists on her heel and disappears around the corner before you can finish.

A giggle echoes from behind you, soft and hoarse, before the arms around your waist start to move. You gasp as huge, silk-covered hands curve around your sides, moving over your stomach, your hips, and slipping over the tops of your thighs.

Your stomach sinks. _Not here_ , you think. _Shit_ , not here.

"Pennywi- " you start, only to cut off with a gasp as a hand reaches up and wraps around your throat, squeezing once. A warning. 

A voice hisses from behind you, " _Just keep it down, will you?_ " It's a perfect imitation of the irritable librarian, only this voice carries an undertone of manic joy, colored with something darker that makes your knees tremble. The hand still by your waist slips over your crotch, pressing down until you whimper. " _This is a library, you know_."

You breathe out shallowly, feeling the hand at your throat tighten for a moment before fingers ease over your jaw, your cheek, and into your hair, forcing you to tilt your head back until the ceiling fills your vision. The hand between your legs grinds against you, fingers rubbing back and forth in harsh, fast strokes until wetness begins to seep through your underwear, and you bite your lip to suppress a cry as a loud, hungry inhale echoes behind you. Scenting you. Breathing you in.

You clamp your eyes shut, struggling to soften your breathing and straining your ears for any sign of the librarian's return. If she comes back, if she sees you - 

The hands disappear from your hair and between your thighs, leaving you wobbling on your feet for a moment before you slump against the bookcase, fighting to catch your breath. Arousal sings in your blood, coupled with a familiar, sour fear, and the combination makes you sick.

The scrape of nails against wood echoes above your head; you look up, and freeze. Gloved hands wreathed in ruffles cling to the top of the bookcase, and between them, peering down at you, rests a face. Caked in cracked white grease paint, topped with a wild mop of orange hair, sporting a wide, red smile. Eyes that flash golden in the shadows. 

"Pennywise," you breathe.

You back away as his mouth broadens in a toothy grin, fear chilling your blood as his prominent front teeth sink into his swollen bottom lip. You know that look. Full and contented. Ready to play. 

You shudder as his body curls over the top of the bookcase like a long, painted cat, his hands knocking books from their perch as he scales down the shelf toward you. Your heart pounds as you wait for the librarian's squawk of outrage, each thump of the books hitting the ground making you cringe. Surely she'll hear. Surely she'll come looking - !

Pennywise drops to the floor in front of you with a heavy thud, springing to his feet in a rush of ruffles and jingling bells.

" _Shhh_ ," you hiss, reaching for him despite the danger. "She'll hear - !"

The smug curl of the clown's lips is your only warning before you're twisted around and slammed against the nearest bookcase, your cheek catching painfully on the edge of a shelf. Stars pop in your vision, your face burning as sharp nails slice into your clothes, ripping, tearing, sending shreds of fabric to the floor in a ruined heap. 

"Then you should be _quiet_ ," Pennywise growls against your ear, and rips your underwear away. Only your shirt and bra survive his onslaught, though they cling to you in tatters. Everything else, he destroys.

You shake as he tucks himself against your back, his arms reaching around you, lifting you up as though you weigh nothing. His chin hooks over your shoulder as he spreads your thighs, pushes against you, and you pant at the hot rush of his breath fanning over your face, thick with sugary sweetness and old rot, underscored by a fresh coat of iron. Blood.

You sob, your head buzzing with panic, with fear, with helpless, crushing despair. Despair that you're about to be consumed by a monster, despair that you're going to get caught in the act with your clothes in tatters and your skin bare for the whole world to see.

Despair that heat still pools in your belly despite it all, your body slick and open and crying out in satisfaction as you're pushed into, crushed between the bookcase and a wall of bloodstained ruffles and dirty silk.

"Quiet now," Pennywise mutters against your ear, his voice soft and steady despite the furious thrusting of his hips, each slap of his skin against yours knocking harsh, ragged breaths from your throat. He curls a hand around your jaw, presses one long finger to the seam of your lips, and giggles, "We're in a library."


	4. iv. sink your teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon: _If you’re still taking prompts, maybe something with sitting on his lap, including the drooling thing, and the reader just begging to have a feel of his cock?_
> 
> Warnings: None
> 
> Female!Reader

Rain falls in droves outside the window, wind whistling through the cracks in the glass and filling the room with damp, cold air. You watch as lightning arcs across the sky, shortly followed by a massive thunderclap that rattles the old house. Rattles you. You shiver, but it's not the heavy storm you fear.

It's the creature at your back. The clown. Pennywise.

Pennywise, whose arms are wrapped around your waist, pressing your back against the solid wall of his chest. Pennywise, whose lap you're perched on, his long legs folded underneath yours. 

Pennywise, whose mouth you can feel trailing up the back of your neck, the breath fanning against your skin hot and slightly ragged. Beneath you, around you (he's surrounding you, caging you in), his body shakes just like the storm outside shakes the old Neibolt house, and you know what that means.

He's _hungry_.

The storm had come without warning, sending everyone scurrying inside to wait out the deluge. There would be no one for him to lure, to stalk, to feed on.

No one but you.

You comfort yourself with the knowledge that he won't kill you. Not yet. He's taken a liking to you, or maybe it's more accurate to say that he's developed a tolerance for you. You and your particular taste.

And you... Well, you'd walked into the lion's den all on your own, hadn't you? And you'd kept coming back, again and again, even knowing what he was. What he'd done. What he'll keep on doing.

And it isn't just fear that you're feeling now, caged in the circle of his arms. Your pulse is racing, yes, and a cold sweat has broken out on your brow, but fear doesn't explain the heat in your belly, doesn't explain the ache between your thighs.

Doesn't explain the urges you're fighting now - to press back against the mouth moving far too lightly over your neck, to squirm in the clown's powerful hold, to roll your hips against the bulge encased beneath all those ruffles and dirty silk, the one you can feel straining against your ass. Anything to relieve that ache in the pit of your belly.

Wetness seeps into the collar of your shirt, making you jump, but the arms tightening around your waist discourage you from moving any further. You hold yourself very still, gripping the forearms pressed to your stomach as you feel lips - slick with saliva, the bottom more plush than the top - part against the nape of your neck.

Teeth scrape against your skin without warning, startling a cry from your throat as they sink into your flesh - not hard or deep enough to maim, just enough to draw blood. They continue along the curve of your shoulder, piercing through your clothing, tearing it to shreds. You hiss at the hot, stinging pain, twisting your head to watch as blood seeps into the fabric and soaks sticky wet into your skin.

Your heartbeat stutters as you're met with a pair of blazing yellow irises, one focused on you, the other drifting slightly out of alignment, followed by a voice in your head, thick and ragged, growling, " _Be still_." 

You swallow hard and nod your head, two quick jerks that make your teeth click together painfully, and force your body to relax in the clown's hold.

Pennywise's eyes flash, his lips curling against your torn skin, before you see - you _feel_ \- a long, wet tongue lap at the blood seeping from your neck and shoulder. A low rumble of satisfaction echoes from his throat as he feasts on you, a frothy mess of blood and drool bubbling at the corners of his mouth, and you're horrified to feel an answering pulse in the core of your belly, a familiar tightening sensation between your thighs that makes you long to draw your knees up to your chest. To hide.

But you can hide nothing from Pennywise. The giggle he releases against your shoulder reminds you of that as surely as the hips suddenly rising to meet yours.

The heat of his clothed cock settles between your thighs, grinding against your core, and you gasp brokenly at the friction, the barrier of your clothes doing little to muffle the sensations rocketing up your spine. 

" _You feed me_ ," you hear in your head, the voice audible over the rasp of your own breaths and the wet pop of lips smacking against your flesh. " _And I'll feed you_." 

"W-what - " you stutter, only to break off in a whimper as Pennywise's hips roll against yours, hard enough to make you bounce in his lap. You don't have to wonder at what he means; you already know, don't you? Your body certainly does - it's given in to the urge to grind back against the bulge tucked between your thighs, your desperate arousal softening the sting of your wounded neck and shoulder. You don't even care about the noxious, pink flood of blood and drool dripping down your arm, or the cruel, smug grin that's sure to be on the clown's face once this encounter is over.

All you care about is the rising, twisting heat in your core, that deep, throbbing ache begging to be satisfied. 

So you tilt your head, baring more of your pinpricked flesh to Pennywise's roving mouth and ignoring the triumphant huff of the clown's laughter.

After all, you're hungry, too.


	5. v. devour, devour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon: _drabble request! something with somnophilia, maybe incorporate b skarsgård's red shower scene from hemlock grove?_
> 
> Warnings: Somnophilia, cunnilingus, Pennywise POV, Pennywise being a massive creep who _really_ wants to eat you
> 
> Female!Reader

You're fast asleep when Pennywise slips into your room. Window unlatched, cracked open. Almost as though you were expecting him. Wanted to see him. Foolish, but then, all humans were.

You were a rare breed, though. Conscious of how dangerous he was, how deadly, and yet helpless against the hold he had on you. Desirous of it, even. He could smell it on you each time you shuffled into the sewers or the Neibolt house, searching for him. Reeking of fear, yes, but also other, deeper flavors: Curiosity. Excitement. Arousal. All infused in your scent, growing stronger each time he revealed himself to you. 

You're well-seasoned now. He can smell it on you, each breath carrying the richness of your flesh to his nose. His mouth waters at your scent, so strong, so _potent_ , even while you're lost in slumber.

He's fed well this night, however, his stomach pleasantly full and his endless, gnawing hunger sated for the moment. His feasting had been long and gratifying, the blood of his last meal still clinging to his mouth and dripping down his chin, coating the front of his costume. 

He would wait, save you for another night when his stomach was aching, empty, crying out for a full meal. And then - oh, then he would _savor_ you.

But he was a gluttonous creature, a slave to his hunger, and one taste - well, one taste wouldn't hurt.

The bells on his costume jingle faintly as he climbs onto your bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. Your brow furrows at the noise, your head turning on your pillow, but you don't wake. Your eyes flicker back and forth beneath the barrier of your lids - ah, you're dreaming.

Pennywise's lips curl into a wide, wicked smile as he watches you. So oblivious to your surroundings, heedless of the danger lurking just beyond your silly dreams. How soft your body looks, bundled up like a baby bird within its nest of blankets. Slack and devoid of tension, devoid of fear. How safe you must feel to slumber so deeply! Why, you don't even react when he tugs your blankets to the foot of the bed, exposing your body to the cool air.

What fun he could have with you!

How much would it take, he wonders, to pull you from sleep? And how would you react upon waking? There would be fear, of course. Oh, fear was a certainty. Your eyes would widen, your mouth would fall open, your body would scrunch up as panic and the urge to flee flooded your muscles and tightened your limbs. But afterwards? After the fear had set in, after you realized he had you at his mercy? 

What would you do then?

He knows exactly what you'll do, strange prey that you are. He wants to see it. Taste it. 

So he lowers his head to the rounded knob of your ankle, pressing his nose to the curve of bone. The faint musk of your skin fills his nostrils, stronger now that he's so close, and his teeth ache already. What a meal you'll make. 

His nose trails up along your bare leg, lips parted as he breathes in your scent. Remnants of his last meal drip onto your skin, leaving behind a bloody trail, and the tang of iron mixing with the salt of your flesh makes him shudder in delight. 

He continues over the bump of your kneecap, over the meat of your thigh, unable to resist touching his teeth to a swath of hot skin and sinking in, just a bit. Your skin bursts like ripe fruit, your blood washing over his tongue. Not much, not nearly enough to sate him, but his eyes roll into the back of his head nonetheless. _Delicious_.

You flinch beneath him. His eyes pop open, sulfuric yellow piercing through the darkness of your bedroom, a snarl building in his throat at the sudden disruption to his fun. Your lips twist in discomfort, your hand twitching beside the swell of your cheek, but you slumber on. 

Satisfied, Pennywise curls his tongue against the small wounds he'd inflicted, lapping up the last few trickling drops of blood before moving on. His nose wrinkles in annoyance as the hem of your shorts impedes his progress; with a jerk of his head and a flash of needle-sharp teeth, they fall to the bed in shreds. Your underwear, too.

Drool bubbles at the corners of his mouth as he pushes his nose against the soft skin of your inner thigh. Your scent is strongest here, so close to your core, and he wraps his hands around your thighs as he noses over your pubic bone, breathing it in. 

Hunger stirs in his belly at your scent; he aches to sink his teeth into your soft, hot flesh. How slick and tasty you would be, salty-sweet on his tongue. It wouldn't take much. Just a small bite would do, yes, just a little taste - 

But oh, he's a gluttonous creature, it's in his nature to take and take and take until there's nothing left, and as soon as he slips his tongue between your legs, that first taste of you blooming thick and sharp on his tongue, he's powerless to resist that urge - to _take_.

To _devour_. 

The air fills with the wet smack of lips and tongue meeting slick flesh as he delves between your folds, the blood and saliva clinging to his mouth mingling with your own fluids. His eyes roll at the cocktail of flavors, a fresh wave of saliva flooding his mouth as the sharp musk of arousal mixes with the first faint stirrings of sweet fear. You're waking up, your hips squirming against the mattress as he feasts, mouth slack and chest heaving as you struggle towards consciousness. 

Pennywise tightens his grip on your thighs, nails digging through the silk of his gloves and into your flesh, relishing in your flinch of pain.

_Wake up_ , he thinks, amber eyes flashing as your head thrashes weakly on your pillow. _Wake up and **see**_. 

And you do.

Your hips surge, a strangled cry piercing the air as you finally wake, eyes staring blindly at the ceiling before falling, wide and wild, to the beast between your thighs. Shock and confusion war on your face for a split second before Pennywise feels it, smells it, just as he'd imagined - _fear_ , so thick he could choke on it, your eyes wet with it, your body reeking of it.

And straight on its heels, just as he'd known - desire. Just as thick, just as sweet, and just as tasty.

What a _feast_.


	6. vi. i'll never kiss and tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This wasn’t actually a request, but I realized I had yet to write about smooching the clown and had to right my wrongs.
> 
> Warnings: Dub-con (ish)

Your hands twist in dirty silk, your heartbeat echoing loud and rabbit-fast in your ears. The arms wrapped around you rest lightly against your sides; the big hands tucked against the small of your back barely exert any pressure. It's a gentle hold, an easily broken one, or at least it would be, were the person holding you anyone else but the creature that has haunted your steps since you arrived in this town, the one that had introduced himself as " _Pennywise the Dancing Clown_ " with a jingle of bells and a wide, painted grin.

No, if you tried to lift yourself from the clown's lap, if you even twitched the wrong way, he would spill your guts across the floor. Or worse - maybe he would just swallow you whole and be done with it.

But no, you concede, he wouldn't do that. Too quick. He'd want to have fun with you first.

This is a game to him, after all. A hunt. And he loves to play with his food.

And oh, you're the easiest sort of prey, aren't you? The one that goes looking for the beast that will gobble it up. The foolish human who willingly sticks their head in the lion's mouth.

Or at least the one that would try, if the lion would let it.

Pennywise's lips twist into a grin, blue eyes shining with wicked delight, and your face burns. He knows. Of course he knows. Everything you fear, every thought that terrifies you - he knows them all.

It amuses him, your desires. He indulges them, encourages them, and then twists them to suit his own whims.

Like now. Fingers tap softly against the base of your spine, as though counting out the seconds ticking silently by. Waiting for you to make the next move. He's a patient predator, this one. Enjoys the long game. It might be months before he finally grows tired of playing with you, but eventually he will, and then -

Well. You've seen the gullet of razors he hides behind those painted lips. Felt the needle-sharp points of those teeth on your own flesh. Your shoulders, your collarbone, your arms and legs - all bear the mark of his bite. Marks that no one can see but you, marks he likes to trace with gloved fingers, relishing in your shivering. It's only a matter of time before the next bite does more than just bruise - before it rends your flesh from your bones and the clown swallows you like so much salted meat.

But not tonight. No, tonight he's in the mood to play. To indulge. To give you something you want.

You swallow hard, peering at the monstrous face staring right back at you. The cracked white grease paint, the red nose, the pointed red lines trailing from above his eyes to the raised curl of his smile. 

His mouth. 

Fear and shame war in the pit of your stomach at the stubborn, foolish, _stupid_ spike of want you feel at the sight of that cruel, terrifying grin. He can smell it, all of it, and his lips twitch in sadistic glee.

"Go on," he coaxes, voice soft and low. Beguiling. Laying the bait. He giggles, reassures you, "I don't bite."

You gasp as his grip suddenly tightens, the gentle pressure of his fingertips against your back shifting at once to sharp, aching points of pain as his nails dig into your skin. 

His smile doesn't waver, but his eyes flash yellow. A warning. "But I will," he promises, "if you won't be nice and accept my gift."

A gift. You almost laugh - maybe you will, later, when you're alone and shivering in your bed. His gift is nothing but a tool, another link in the chain he's wrapped around you, tethering you to him and keeping you there, nice and ripe for the slaughter. 

"Well?" he drawls, voice breaking with a hint of a growl. His nails pierce through your clothes, pricking your skin, and you grunt at the pain.

He won't let you go until you do this. He might not even let you go then. 

But why fight it? Why not stick your head in the lion's mouth, and see if he bites?

You suck in a deep, shaky breath, fingers clenching in the front of his costume, and tilt your head up, lean in. His eyes are the last thing you see before you close your own, flashing bright and triumphant in the dark, and then you press your lips to his.

You don't know what you'd expected, though you've thought about this moment far more often than you'd like to admit. You'd wondered if the paint on his lips would feel waxy, or taste bitter, wondered if it was even paint at all, if it would carry the iron tinge of all the blood he'd consumed over his long, terrible life.

And you _can_ taste it, the deep, rich tang of old blood clinging to his lips, but beneath the paint his mouth is soft and supple, and your own moves easily against it.

If anything, that terrifies you even more. You'd expected - wanted - the creature to feel alien, unnatural, _disgusting_. Wanted the touch of his mouth to sour your stomach, summon bile to your throat, flood your veins with ice. Anything to dissuade your own unnatural desires towards him. 

But though his taste is anything like what you've experienced before, though it carries the bite of blood and the weight of all the carnage he's wrought, the only thing that twists your stomach, floods your veins, is _heat_.

And it builds as you tilt your head, part your lips, losing yourself to the strange, dangerous act of such an intimate touch with such a deadly creature. You feel more than hear his low, terrible laughter at your expense; it rumbles against your lips, makes your pulse jump, sharp and electric-hot, as though you'd just touched a livewire. 

It's humiliating, a reminder of your insignificance, your foolishness. _I'm a plaything_ , you think, your pulse throbbing so hard it makes your head ache. _A toy. A meal. He's using my fear to control me. He's giving me what I **want** to control me_.

You should be running, should be ripping your mouth away from the clown's and scrambling out of his hold, regardless of whether or not you'd make it two steps before being gutted. You should be struggling to retain your sanity, your _humanity_ , not giving in to your baser desires and allowing yourself to be manipulated because of them.

You should be doing all of those things, and yet what you _do_ is press your mouth harder against the clown's, your movements feverish and your brain afire. The wet pop of your lips moving against his, the harsh pants of your breath and the occasional low rasp of his laughter fills your ears, makes the heat simmering in your belly flare hot enough to burn. You're crawling out of your skin, your limbs trembling and your head buzzing, and yet still you want more.

So you don't flinch as his tongue pushes between your lips, presses against the roof of your mouth and the back of your throat, too much, too fast. You breathe hard through your nose, feel his own twitch where it's pressed against yours - he's scenting the air, breathing in your desire and your shame and your fear. It makes him wild, makes him _hungry_.

His teeth sink into your bottom lip, your skin bursting beneath the sharp points of his fangs and blood bubbling to the surface, but you don't jerk away, you don't run, you don't even try. 

Instead, you wrap your hands around the clown's jaw, draw his bottom lip, blood-slick and swollen, between your teeth -

\- and you bite back.


	7. vii. to the bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon: _I don't know if you're into the whole breeding thing but at least something with Penny filling you up after fucking you viciously?_
> 
> Warnings: Overstimulation, rough sex

Your screams echo in the empty Neibolt house, thin and ragged with both pain and pleasure. Your body shakes with exhaustion, each brutal thrust jerking you higher on the lumpy, dirty mattress. Your fingers clasp tightly at its sides, desperate for purchase, but your arms tremble so violently it's impossible to firm your grip. 

Long fingers and wide, gloved palms clench around your thighs, keeping them raised and spread, curled tightly around silk-clad hips. All you can do is hold on, your limbs sweat-soaked and aching, as Pennywise buries himself again and again in the slick heat of your body, his pace harsh and unrelenting. He's chasing his pleasure, his painted mouth hanging slack as he fucks into you, saliva glistening on his swollen bottom lip. Sulfuric yellow eyes bore into yours, wide and fixed with an intensity that frightens you, and yet you can't force yourself to look away. You're caught. Trapped. 

But you're a willing captive. You'd sought this out, wanted it, and now you're reaping what you'd sown.

And it was going to kill you. _He_ was going to kill you. Not with teeth or claws or the terrifying light hidden in the depths of his throat, but with this - your body wet and open, stuffed full with the thick, blazing length of him, at the mercy of his desire, his stamina, his pleasure. His, not yours. Your own pleasure is inconsequential, an afterthought, but that doesn't lessen its impact, its _severity_.

You moan brokenly as a familiar heat coils in your belly, eyes half-lidded and hazy as yet another orgasm approaches. It's not the first, not the second - you feel as though you've spent hours on this dirty mattress, brought to the brink of debilitating pleasure and tossed unceremoniously over the cliff again and again, your thighs wet with your own fluids, your skin slick with sweat, the musk of sex so thick in the air it makes you swoon.

And yet the length inside of you remains hot and full, and Pennywise's pace shows no sign of slowing. No signs of _stopping_. 

And you can't take much more. The first orgasm had crashed over you, the second had raged through you, but this one - this one feels like it's being ripped from you. Your thighs and hips ache down to the bone, your sex oversensitive and sore, pleasure and pain indistinguishable now. 

You're desperate, and desperation makes you reckless, drives you to wrap weak arms around the clown's neck and pull with what little strength remains in your limbs until his mouth rests just above your heaving chest. Fear rockets through you at the thought of his teeth so close to your heart, knowing that he could part his jaws and rip through your chest if the whim struck him, but the hungry flash of his eyes and the satisfied curl of his lips as he presses his open mouth to your collarbone muffles your terror beneath shards of sharp, hot desire.

The bite of teeth at your skin makes you mewl, the heat pooling in your belly flaring up your spine and filling your aching limbs with fire. Pennywise answers you with a low, rumbling growl, yellow eyes rolling into the back of his head as he sucks at the wound, feeding on your flesh and blood as surely as he's feeding on your fear and your arousal. You wonder what it must taste like, and find your inner walls clenching at the sudden urge to lick the taste of yourself from the clown's mouth.

You keen, half in brutal pleasure and half in horror as his pace increases, deep, inhuman growls pouring from his mouth and his hips grinding into yours with a savagery that steals away what little breath you have left. As if he's heard your thoughts. Heard them and hungered, just as you have.

Your legs tighten around his hips as your orgasm crests and thunders through you, coils of heat snapping along the base of your spine and a new gush of fluid slicking your thighs. You gasp as you feel the first pulse of his release, and pain lances through your collarbone as his teeth clench in the wound, lost in the throes of his orgasm. 

Heat floods you as he cums, and cums, and cums - god, it seems to go on for ages, filling you up, overflowing. You feel it dripping down your thighs, soaking the mattress beneath you. 

The scent of sweat and sex and blood swells in the room, fills your lungs. Your legs slip from the clown's thighs like so much dead weight, your arms falling limp around his neck. Your eyes fall closed in spent, exhausted relief.

Only to snap open in horror as the length still buried inside of you begins to swell once more, gloved hands hitching your thighs back into place and bloodied lips stretching in a wide, wicked smile.

He isn't finished with you yet.


	8. viii. come take a shot at me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I mentioned wanting to write fic where reader beat the shit out of Pennywise and an anon was All About That
> 
> Warnings: Child death

You glare up at the clown, your blood boiling in your veins. His mouth is stretches in a smirk, hands locked around your wrists, pressing them down hard against the stage. His knee rests immovable between your thighs.

"Let me go," you rasp between gritted teeth, twisting your wrists within his grip. 

Pennywise grins, blood smeared across his painted lips. You flinch as a drop falls on your cheek, wet and still warm from the body lying still in the stagnant water just a few feet away. 

"Let you go?" he asks, giggling as if you'd just told a swell joke. His eyes flash golden in the dim, dank light. "You wanted to see, didn't you? Isn't that why you've come? And now you turn your face away?" He releases one of your wrists to grip your chin, fingertips digging into your skin as he twists your head, forces you to look at the body in the water. You jerk against his grip, but it's no use. 

" _Look_ ," he growls, his voice losing its childish glee. 

Your vision blurs as you stare at the body, eyes wet with fear and anger. Blood stains the water around it, spreading sluggishly as the body cools. The clothes it wears are tattered and riddled with claw marks, and nausea swells in your stomach. Jesus, it's just a _kid_.

"Got your fill?" Pennywise crows, jerking your head around to face him again. He bares his teeth at your tears. "Did I sate your _curiosity_?" His head tilts, lips parting to reveal his prominent front teeth, stained red with viscera. You shudder as a toxic mixture of blood and drool drips down his chin. "Or did you want more? More than to _see_?" His sulfuric eyes trail down to your lips, and your stomach curdles. "I wonder, do you want a _taste_ , too?"

His face lowers to yours, and a cloud of static fills your head as you watch his lips, his teeth, all smeared with the blood of the kid he'd just _slaughtered_ , his breath hot and reeking of gore.

You react without thinking, jerking your arm down and raking your nails across his face with all your strength. His head snaps to the side, four jagged scratches trailing from the corner of his eye to the edge of his mouth. 

You hardly breathe as black ichor spills from the shallow wounds, not seeping down his cheek but drifting up, disintegrating into the air like wisps of smoke.

His eye rolls down to look at you, his head still twisted to the side, and you burn at the mockery within that golden gaze. 

"What claws you have," he simpers, voice high-pitched and trembling in mock-fear as he reaches for your hand. He purses his lips at the black stains on your fingernails. "What a fierce little human you are." 

Your face burns in humiliation at his ridicule, at the sheer insignificance you feel as you lay there beneath his bulk, subject to his whims. A tool for his amusement. 

"Let me _go_ ," you choke out, voice tight with anger. With hate.

Pennywise smirks down at you, presses your fingers to his unmarred cheek. "Make me."

Your vision blurs as rage fills you, tightens your limbs until you ache with the force of it. You hiss and jerk your hand from his grip, raking your nails across his cheek, across his nose, across those bloodstained lips. His hand slackens around your other wrist and you wrench it free, your fingers throbbing as you scratch and claw and tear. Cool, cracked greasepaint sheds beneath your nails, black ichor filling the air like clouds of dark fog, and in the midst of your rushed breaths and the rapid pounding of your heartbeat, you hear it.

Laughter.

You jerk your hands away from the clown's face, watching as his body shakes, the bells on his costume jingling. Ragged scratch marks and deeper gouges decorate his face: the rounded end of his nose, his bottom lip, his wide brow, all bear the marks of your nails, black blood staining his white face and drifting almost lazily into the air.

But his grin remains the same, broad and razor-sharp, his laughter loud and manic, echoing in the cavernous space of his lair.

He's laughing at _you_.

You scream in outrage, red coating your vision as you push at his chest, rolling your hips to dislodge him from you. He goes without a fight, eyes wild and rolling as he screams with laughter, and you press him to the stage floor, climbing on top of him, curling your hands into fists as his wide, red smile fills your vision.

You strike with a ragged cry, knuckles glancing off the sharpness of his cheekbone, rattling your bones, but you don't care, you just keep swinging, again and again and again, your breath punching from your chest in broken gasps.

And always, always, always you hear laughter, that _fucking_ laughter, high-pitched and wailing in your ears, low and crazed and rumbling through your legs, your belly, your chest, the body beneath you trembling with it. 

" _So fierce_ ," you hear in your head, colored with that same manic laughter. " _So terrible! So strong! So scary_!"

You _scream_ , your hand reaching, grasping for anything you can use; your fingers close around a broken pipe, thick and coated in rust and grime. It makes a hollow ringing sound as you swing it, striking flesh. You swing and you swing and you swing, sweat pouring from your brow, muscles screaming. And yet Pennywise's laughter seems to grow, ringing so loud in your ears your head buzzes with it; you rain blows down onto his chest and face, again and again and again, over and over and over -

_Just shut up just shut up just shut up - !_ you think, tears of pain and exertion pouring down your cheeks. _Just. Shut. UP_. 

You bring the pipe down one last time, crying out as pain lances up your arms, your fingers falling heavy and numb from the handle. 

You peer down through wet, blurry eyes at the clown, your chest heaving, breath rattling in your throat. Nausea swells thick and sour on your tongue at the sight of his face, his chest, the blood spilling into the air. One of his eyes lays in a film of blood within the ruin of its socket, the top of his skull caved in and spewing ichor. Your nails had carved divots across the expanse of his face, and you swallow back bile at the hints of teeth you can see poking through his torn skin. 

And yet still, _still_ , he laughs, the sound bubbling up from his throat in rasping shrieks, his belly shaking beneath you, bells ringing. 

"So scary," he whispers within his cracking, crackling gales of mirth, his ruined eye rolling in the pit of its socket. 

You push to your feet with a broken sob, the whole of your body throbbing as you fall from the stage and stumble away from the clown, your shoes splashing up stagnant water. Your hands are bleeding, your fingers numb and swollen, and your shoulders scream in agony as you run - away from the body in the water, away from the stage, away from the clown.

Pennywise's howling laughter follows you out of the sewer. It follows you all the way home.


	9. ix. it only takes a taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon: _a rare moment of giving as pennywise eats out the reader_
> 
> Warnings: More lighthearted than my usual fanfare, cunnilingus
> 
> Female!Reader

You sigh in relief as you walk into the movie theater, glad to finally be out of the bitter cold. You smooth your dress down over your knees, digging in the pocket of your jacket for your cell and checking the clock. Looks like you made it just in time.

You'd decided last minute to come here. You could just as easily have watched a movie at home, but after spending the afternoon flitting restlessly from room to room, you'd needed a change of scenery. A distraction.

You didn't want to admit that you'd been waiting. 

So here you are, popcorn in hand as you settle in a seat in the back of the theater. You're pleased to see that the aisle is empty, and hope it'll stay that way - you've never been too fond of packed theaters. You're glad to see that there's not too many people in this one.

You sip at your drink as the previews play, a mixture of anticipation and unease fluttering in the pit of your stomach. You'd hesitated about choosing this particular movie - a horror film you'd originally been looking forward to - considering the strange turn your life had taken recently. The strange creature that had taken up residence in it. After all, no special effects or make-believe movie monster held a candle to Pennywise the Dancing Clown.

You pause with a handful of popcorn kernels halfway to your mouth, glancing around surreptitiously. You're always afraid you'll summon the clown somehow, call him to you, just by virtue of thinking his name. _Speak of the devil and he shall appear_ , or something like that.

It's not outside the realm of possibility. You've learned that nothing is, when it comes to him.

But the rest of the moviegoers look normal enough, and there are no traces of orange hair or dirty silk or wide, red smiles, so you settle back into your seat and immerse yourself in the movie.

It's follows a simple enough plot line, full of the usual horror film clichés, but the acting is solid and you find yourself sinking into your seat as the movie progresses, unnerved by the brief glimpses you're afforded of the monster.

A particularly nasty jump scare makes you jerk in your seat, a gasp slipping from your mouth. You laugh a little at your reaction, listening to the couple the next aisle down teasing each other for screaming, and reach for another handful of popcorn from the bag you'd left sitting in the next seat.

Hands, huge and clad in silk, curl around your knees, and popcorn goes flying as you shout, your heart lodging in your throat at the white face and bright blue eyes peering up at you from the floor.

Pennywise. _Shit_.

You hiss his name, glancing at the couple close by and praying that they don't hear you. "What are you - ?!"

Pennywise wrenches your legs apart, blue melding seamlessly into fierce, sharp yellow, and you clamp your lips shut as he curves his hands over your thighs, lifting your dress over your knees and leaving you feeling helplessly exposed.

You shake your head, mouthing soundless protests as he shuffles forward, his body large and looming over you even while he's on his knees. His face obscures your vision of the movie screen, the flashing lights and shifting shadows throwing his feral eyes and the wicked curl of his red mouth into sharp relief. 

"Were you waiting?" he asks, tilting his head like a curious animal. You shoot a quick, startled glance at the people nearby, but no one acts like they've heard him. His mouth stretches in a wide smile at your reaction. "Waiting for me?"

You whimper as his hands climb higher, warm, wide palms high on your inner thighs. His eyes flash in the dark. "Waiting for this?"

Your breath catches in your lungs, your heart racing as you nod your head, contrite. There's no use in lying. Pennywise rarely asks you questions he doesn't already know the answer to.

Triumph flares in his eyes, the bells on his costume jingling as he nods his head. "Yes, yes, waiting so long. So long." You jump as his fingers move beneath your dress, plucking at the band of your underwear, curling over your hips. Your face burns as he inhales, his eyes all too knowing as he pulls you closer, until your ass rests on the edge of your seat.

"My, my, my," he breathes, shades of a growl echoing in his voice as he lowers his head. His breath fans against your bare thighs, drawing goosebumps to the surface, and your hands grope for the armrests as he presses his nose to the juncture of your thighs, breathing you in. "How _tasty_."

You breathe hard through your nose as a long, wet tongue presses against your clothed sex, dragging over your slit with just enough pressure to make your thighs tremble. The urge to slam your legs shut is overwhelming; you're too exposed like this, your dress pushed up to your waist, the obscene spread of your thighs making your stomach squirm with a heady mixture of fear and arousal. 

But Pennywise is an immovable force. Inescapable. Peering up at you with golden eyes wreathed in shadows, fingers digging into the meat of your thighs, daring you to deny him. Daring you to pretend that this isn't something you _want_.

You can't. Even if you could find your voice or the strength to protest, your body knows the truth. It's filling with heat, your limbs trembling with desire and your cunt throbbing as Pennywise drags his tongue across you, slow, hard strokes that leave you gasping in the dark and struggling to keep your eyes open. 

You squirm as he presses in, the thin, damp barrier of your panties doing little to lessen the overwhelming sensation of his tongue pushing into your folds; your spine arches, the back of your seat creaking as you press against it. You shoot terrified glances around the theater, trying to see if anyone had heard, but a growl drifts up from between your legs and pulls your attention back to the clown buried between your thighs, his eyes glinting with anger at your inattention.

He pulls his mouth away from your sex, and your breath catches at the gleam of moisture on his painted lips. "Are you bored?" he rasps, narrowing his eyes at you. You shake your head quickly, gasping out denials, but he continues as if you haven't spoken. "Should I try harder?"

You freeze as he opens his mouth, his jaws splitting wide and his tongue lolling out, long and thick and dripping with saliva. The writhing muscle splits down the middle as you watch, and you clamp your hand over your mouth as he pushes his face back between your legs, the two tendrils wriggling beneath your panties and immediately delving between your folds.

You sink your teeth into the meat of your palm as they slip inside you, aided by copious amounts of saliva and your own slick. One undulates against your clit in maddening waves, the other thrusting deep inside and writhing against your inner walls.

You keen against your hand as pleasure crackles up your spine, sharp and hot and so intense it brings tears to your eyes. Fear lingers heavy and sour in your stomach as you fight to keep quiet, knowing that all it'll take is a too-loud moan or a silent scene in the movie for everyone in this theater to know exactly what you're doing.

A hungry, garbled moan drifts from between your thighs and you tilt your head back against the seat, panting against your palm. You know Pennywise can smell your fear, can taste it just as he's tasting you right now. You know he's getting off on it, and heat flares in your belly in response, soaks into the base of your spine. You reach down with your other hand, hesitating for a moment - you never know how to touch him, you never know what he'll allow - before you bury your fingers in his wild hair, clenching around the fluffy strands as his tongues drive you closer and closer to some perilous ledge, flicking rapidly against your clit and fucking into you until you feel like you're about to fly apart. The smell of sex is thick in the air, the scent of your musk and the sugary rot you always associate with the clown filling your nose, and you roll your hips against his wide, gaping mouth and thick, wriggling tongues, your body primed and desperate for release.

It's the scrap of teeth - sharp, pointed teeth - against your swollen, sensitive flesh that finally sends you crashing over the edge, your mouth falling open in a soundless scream as you gush around the tongues happily writhing inside of you, slurping up every last drop of your cum until you're left to slump in your seat, trembling weakly and oversensitive from the onslaught.

Your fingers fall free of his hair as Pennywise pulls away, licking the last remnants of your essence from his lips as his jaws meld back together. You watch him through half-lidded eyes, your dress still hiked up to your waist and your thighs wet with your own fluids. 

"I - " you start, only to jerk upright as the couple nearby stand up together, moving toward you. A quick glance at the screen shows you that the movie has ended, and you scramble to pull your dress back down over your knees, your face on fire as the couple moves past and one of the girls shoots you a curious glance. They don't even seem to notice the clown kneeling at your feet, grinning wickedly at you.

You glare at him, opening your mouth, but he blinks out of view before you can say a word, leaving behind nothing but a lingering sour sweet scent and a _pop_ of displaced air.


	10. x. just to find the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon: _a carnival ride gone wrong. Like maybe they're on a ferris wheel and he gets into the compartment and its creepy af._
> 
> Warnings: Penny being a creep, stalking, implied character death (sort of?)

You have a shadow.

You'd noticed him immediately as soon as you'd entered the fairgrounds. He'd been standing by the carousel, painted lips stretched in a wide grin and one gloved hand wrapped around a bouquet of bright red balloons. 

You'd frozen, watching him. Watching the way the crowd parted around him, as though they didn't even notice he was there. Except for the children. They stared up at him with fascination - some with dread, and some with abject terror. Staring at the cracked paint coating his face and his dirty costume, you couldn't fault them for being afraid.

He had caught you looking, had raised a hand and waved at you with his mouth stretched in that wide, red smile. Even from the entrance you had heard the bells on his costume jingling, and you'd unconsciously taken a step back, strangely unnerved by the sound. You'd stumbled into a group of laughing teenagers, losing sight of the clown as you'd turned to stammer apologies, and when you'd turned back, heart pounding, he was gone.

You should have left then, should have turned on your heel and escaped while you had the chance, but you'd convinced yourself you were being silly, that there was nothing to be scared of. It was just a clown, and the fairgrounds were big enough that you could avoid him if you really wanted to.

You kept seeing him, though. Hearing him. A flash of orange hair in your periphery when you walked past the carnival games, the jingle of bells behind you as you stood in line for the Tilt-A-Whirl, the sudden bite of sharp, high-pitched laughter in your ears as you chewed on your funnel cake. He was following you.

You try to ignore it, wishing that you weren't so alone in this sea of strangers. The whimsy leeches from the fair's festive atmosphere as you pick your way cautiously between attractions, eyes peeled for red lips or dirty silk. You don't know what he wants with you or how to make him stop; you're too afraid that he'll ambush you in the parking lot if you make a break for the exit now. You need a plan.

The ferris wheel is your last-ditch effort at security. You'll be blissfully alone in the carriage, and once you're at the top of the wheel, you can search the fairgrounds for the clown and hurry in the opposite direction of him when you land, straight to one of the exits.

You settle into the seat with a sigh of relief, leaning back as the wheel lurches into motion. Dusk has spread over the grounds, making the lights strung between the many attractions shine brilliantly in the gathering darkness, and you watch the crowd of people drifting below you in a kind of haze as you search restlessly for the clown.

Its hard to pick him out in the crowd. The lights and colors all shift together from your vantage point in the air, the music and laughter below melding into a dim roar that barely penetrates your solitary carriage. You feel muffled from the rest of the world, unnervingly _alone_ , and you shudder. 

_Get it together_ , you think, trying to rub the chill from your arms. _You're making a big deal out of nothing. He's just some creep in a costume. Plenty of those running around tonight. He's just trying to scare you_.

"Is it working?"

You _freeze_ , your eyes going wide and round in your reflection in the carriage window. The world below blurs as you turn your head, your heartbeat pounding in your ears, buzzing like a goddamn fly. You know what you're going to see, _who_ you're going to see, but that still doesn't prepare you for the reality of coming face to face with _that fucking clown_ , perched on the opposite seat and leering down at you.

_How the fuck did he get in here?_

"W-what - " you stutter, pressing yourself as far back into your seat as you can. There's nowhere to fucking _go_ , not unless you're prepared to bolt out the carriage door. "H-how... how did you - ?"

"I think it is," he says, his voice a strange amalgam of rough and soft, masculine but high-pitched, almost childish. His bright blue eyes cut through the gloom in the compartment like twin searchlights. "Yes, I think it's working very well."

Your mouth opens and closes, completely at a loss, before you recall what you'd been telling yourself before he'd shown up. What you'd been _thinking_.

_He's just trying to scare you_.

Your blood turns to ice in your veins. "H - how? How could you know - "

"Oh, Pennywise knows a lot," he chirps. Gooseflesh prickles your arms at the jovial, overtly friendly tone of his voice. "You'd be surprised, how much he knows about _you_." He tilts his head, painted lips parting in a wicked smile, and _breathes your name_. 

Fear wraps around your throat like a vice. "H-how do you know my name?" you rasp, your voice hoarse and trembling. Your teeth chatter with the strength of your terror, and you clench them together so tight your jaw aches.

He laughs, a childish giggle that makes the ruffles on his costume shake and his bells jingle. "Silly. It's important to know about your friends, isn't it?" He reaches over and taps your nose with a long, silk-clad finger; every muscle in your body goes hard and stiff in response. "And we're going to be great friends, you and I. Oh yes we _are_." The last word is a gritted bite on his tongue, and you flinch back at the flash of yellow in his irises (though there's nowhere else to go, you're trapped, you're fucking trapped in here with this _thing_ \- )

You tense as he inhales, his round, red nose scrunching as he sniffs the air. "Ahhh," he sighs, swaying toward you with an almost dreamy expression on his face. "Such sweet fear. So strong. So _tasty_." He moves as if to touch you, fingers outstretched, and you dive for the door. Doesn't matter that you're spinning in the air on a fucking wheel, if you can at least call out for help - 

Fingers dig into your arms from behind and _yank_ you to the floor, your breath punched from your lungs as your back slams against the metal seat. A hand wraps around your throat and pulls your head back, forcing you to face the clown, and tears fill your eyes at the look on his cracked, white face. 

At the hunger you see there.

"P-please," you whimper, your legs shifting restlessly against the cold, hard floor. The walls are closing in on you, your head filling with static, your lungs aching to draw in air that isn't tainted by the clown's sweet, rotten stench. You're trapped between his legs, surrounded by him, his knees pressing against your shoulders and your head pushed into the bowl of his lap, pillowed on a bed of dirty ruffles. Outside the carriage walls, you can hear laughter. Music. People. Your eyes fill with tears. 

"Ohhhh, I see," Pennywise breathes, wide-eyed, as if he's just discovered something grand. He thumbs away your tears, rubbing the gathering wetness into the ruddy flesh of your cheek. "You want to be _close_ friends, is that it?" He giggles at your face and whatever he sees there, lowering his own to hover over yours. "Why didn't you just say so?"

You watch in horror as he opens his mouth, his jaws splitting, peeling back to reveal needle-sharp teeth bursting from red, wet gums. Drool bubbles at the corners of his lips, dripping down his chin, and his eyes flare a dark, toxic gold. "Oh yes," he warbles, his voice muffled around the rows of teeth undulating within his wide, gaping maw. His hand on your neck tightens, nails digging into your skin, and you wheeze with fear as you watch his teeth inching closer and closer to your face. His breath reeks of iron and rot. "You and me, we'll be as close as close can be."


	11. xi. tie me up and take me over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon: _Maybe maybe maybe penny gets submissive and all tied up and u just tease the fuck out of him and he whines and begs and he gets angry but he can't get what he wants and you just have complete authority over him_
> 
> Warnings: choking, submissive!Penny (of a sort)

You barely hear the clink of chains over your own heartbeat; it pounds in your ears as you stand over the clown, your breath sticking in your throat as you stare down at him, at his outstretched arms and the heavy chains wrapped around his wrists, secured to bolts on either side of his stage. Precautions. For you, not him, because you don't trust him to stick to his promise.

His promise not to hurt you.

You don't trust him even with the chains on. And how could you? You would be a fool to take him at his word, and oh, he has plenty of those - sweet and beguiling when he's needy like this, coaxing you into giving him what he wants.

And what he wants is this - to submit. To you. 

You'd never done anything like this before, not with anyone. Certainly not with him. Your encounters with the clown were rough, fast, and always you were the one being consumed, overwhelmed, devoured. 

Could you do the same? More importantly, could you even satisfy him if you tried?

You don't really have a choice. You could leave him like this, sure, but you doubt you'd get twenty feet before he was up and after you. Even now there's a spark of anger in his eyes as he looks up at you; you have a feeling this is as unfamiliar a position for him as it is for you, and should you reject him like this, spurn such a rare gift, you would suffer for it.

So you take a deep breath, steel your nerves, and approach him. You can't let your fear get the better of you; if you do, you'll never be able to go through with this. Still, you're cautious as you settle over his hips, your heart in your throat as he follows your every movement, eyes trained on you, mouth hanging slack.

You've seen that look before - it's hunger, not for food but for flesh, and heat pools in your belly despite your unease. Who knows when you'll have another chance like this? A chance to be in control? 

"Show me," you say, glad when your voice doesn't shake. You press your hands to his chest, your thumbs brushing against one of the fuzzy pom poms on his costume, and feel his pulse beneath the meat of your palm. It's so strange; you'd never imagined he'd have one, but it's there, strong and steady. "Show me what to do."

Yellow bleeds into the blue of his eyes at your request; he studies you for a long, tense moment, during which you struggle to remain still, before he breaks your eye contact and tilts his head back, baring the long line of his white throat to your gaze.

You swallow, reaching out and pressing the tips of your fingers to the hollow of his throat. Lightly at first, until his lips curl in displeasure and a growl rumbles against your fingers. You hurriedly curl both hands around his neck, marveling at the low huff of breath he releases as you tighten your grip, enough to feel the skin give beneath your nails. 

"Harder." You jump at the sound of his voice, the low, hoarse quality of it. His usual childish glee is absent, his lips free of the wicked smile you're used to, and though you hesitate to disobey him, you're unsure - _afraid_ \- of what will happen if you press too hard, dig too deep. 

Rather than thrilling at your fear, Pennywise's eyes narrow in anger. The chains clang as his hands curl into fists. You flinch at the sound and firm your grip around his throat, squeezing with all your strength.

His breath wheezes from his lungs, but the sigh that eases past his lips is one of rapture rather than displeasure. He's _enjoying_ this.

And, watching the way your fingernails sink into his skin, creating half moon divots in his white flesh, you can't deny the spark traveling up the length of your spine, the flush of power resting warm and heavy in your cheeks and belly. You remember all of the times he's held you down, the marks he's left on your body - some pleasurable, others unbearable - and the joy he's taken from your cries for more, for respite, for _help_. 

The thought of instilling even half of that desperation in him, of making him _beg_ , makes your breath run short. You can't hurt him, not truly, but you can deny him what he wants, give him just enough to whet his appetite and then take it away. It's a dangerous game, but then so is your entire relationship with the clown. 

You loosen your grip on his throat and press your thumbs to his jugular, listening to the whistle of his breath as he sucks in air. Drool drips from the corners of his mouth, his eyes blazing yellow as he gropes for your gaze, and you can see the anger rising again, fighting through the haze of pleasure. Before it surfaces you tighten your grip once more and bear down, feeling the flutter of his pulse against your thumb, your own pounding in time with it, beating quick like a hummingbird's wings.

His hips surge beneath you, his boots scraping against the stage floor as he kicks his legs, and you watch in fascination as his white face blooms red, then purple, then blue. 

Your hands shake, tremors traveling up the length of your arms as you squeeze as hard as you can; if your positions were reversed he would have already crushed your windpipe, but your strength pales in comparison to his. You're only human, after all.

But you can still do damage, you can still rip his air away and leave gouges in his flesh. 

_That's what you want, isn't it?_ you think, a muscle in your hand cramping as he writhes beneath you. You can feel the heat of him beneath your buttocks, see the hunger in his eyes; he's salivating with it. _You want me to hurt you. To control you. You want to see what it's like_.

You release his throat, your hands numb and tingling as he draws in a wet, gasping breath, his chest heaving beneath you. Your own breath resounds in your ears, thick in your lungs and loud in the stagnant air of the sewer. Sweat pours down your brow, your shirt sticks wetly to the skin of your back, and your vision runs hazy and hot. God, you've never felt like this before, awash with heat and power and awe - awe that a powerful creature like this would willingly lay itself at your feet. Awe that you have power over him. At least for now.

Pennywise stares up at you through half-lidded eyes, mouth and chin wet with saliva. His throat is ringed with bloody half moons, and you run your finger over the wounds, smearing black ichor into his skin. 

"I know what you want," you murmur, rolling your hips against the bulge pressed against you. Pennywise growls, the sound like gravel underfoot. You press your thumbs against his jugular and dig your nails into his flesh. "Hush," you say, your heart pounding at the command. At the way he _looks_ at you after you give it, a heady mix of anger and arousal on his face. From your periphery, you can see his sharp nails shredding through his gloves, and though fear floods your system at the very real threat, desire stirs just as hot in your belly at his frustration. You feel reckless. 

"Say please." Static fills your head at this newest demand, static and an animal bleat of alarm, every survival instinct screaming at you to take it back, to quit while you're ahead, but you can't. God, you _can't_. 

"Say please," you repeat, lifting your hips and wriggling out of your pants and underwear, shivering at the sensation of dirty silk against your bare skin.

"Say it," you press, reaching behind you, pulling his length free of his costume and holding it poised at your entrance. He bares his teeth at the touch of your flesh, rolls his hips and growls as the head of his cock slips against you. 

You push at his chest with more strength than you knew you possessed, your own lips curling in a sneer. " _Say it_ ," you snap, fear and arousal swimming so fiercely in your veins that you feel faint with it. 

His eyes blaze up at you, violence and retribution promised within those yellow depths. Sharp teeth poke from between his lips, wet with saliva, and his claws scratch furrows into the stage floor.

But he opens his mouth, and though his lips are twisted in an ugly snarl and his voice is garbled through the rows of teeth sprouting from his gums, his plea is genuine enough.

" _Please_."


	12. xii. better the devil you know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wet slap of footsteps clomping towards you makes your body tense, shudders wracking your frame as you prop yourself up against the dirty wall. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears. Your vision blurs.
> 
> But you can still see it.
> 
> It stands before you, its head tilting to the side as it regards you with a curious look on its face. Its far too familiar face.
> 
> Your face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by marionette-warrior: _Angst idea: pennywise's s/o was taken/eaten by a monster like him. And the monster walks around as the s/o._
> 
> Warnings: body horror, blood

Water drips sluggishly from the pipes above you, the soft plink of the falling droplets as they hit the floor the only sound you can hear. That, and the heavy rasp of your breaths.

You’re going cold, your fingers numb and trembling. You can barely feel your toes in your soaked shoes. 

Tears squeeze from your eyes as you press your fingers to your thigh. Where before your skin and muscles had flared in agony, now all you feel is pins and needles. Wet, torn skin. You should be afraid of that. Afraid that you feel nothing, not even pain. 

But there’s so much else to fear.

The wet slap of footsteps clomping towards you makes your body tense, shudders wracking your frame as you prop yourself up against the dirty wall. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears. Your vision blurs.

But you can still see  _it_.

It stands before you, its head tilting to the side as it regards you with a curious look on its face. Its far too familiar face.

Your face.

Your lips, your eyes, your nose, your hair. Your body. It’s taken everything, copied every minuscule detail and made it its own. 

Though you’ve never seen that expression on your face before - that blank, silent stare, hunger flaring in the depths of its eyes.

Because it  _is_  hungry. Just not for you.  
  
“You smell like a dead thing,” it says, nudging your thigh with its shoe. You whimper as pain flares through your leg; despite the heavy numbness weighing down the limb, it seems you can still feel something after all. “Will you die soon?”

The sound of its voice makes you shudder, so familiar and yet not. Like you’re listening to a recording of yourself. It’s  _your_ voice, and yet there’s an underlying smokiness that doesn’t belong, something darker. Other.    
  
You don’t answer. You don’t think you’d be able to even if you wanted, not with the way your breath sticks in your throat, the scent of copper lingering on your tongue.

“When will it be here?” it asks, a deep, rattling groan echoing from its throat. “I hunger.”

Your blood runs cold at the rasp of its voice, the way its lips stretch around a wide, grisly smile. The skin cracks and twists along its jawline, as though its human guise is struggling to contain it. Through the rends in its skin you see glints of sharp, serrated teeth.

You know only too well what lies beneath that false skin, and fear floods your battered body as you remember the glimpses you’d gotten of its face, its true face, the stink of its breath and the iron grip of its jagged claws as it had dragged you through dirty water and over rough, uneven ground.

It had taken you in the sewers. Stolen you away. Taken your own body as a guise and left you to sit in the stink of your own sweat and blood in this crumbling warehouse on the outskirts of town. The ravages of time had left the building’s crumbling walls rusted and torn, grass and weeds growing between the cracks in its floor. The scent of rot and fresh vegetation mingles with the cloying scent of your own blood, and nausea churns in your gut.

The creature’s eyes flash as it studies you, shifting from your own eye color to a mottled, murky silver. 

“Hungry,” it rasps. Needle-sharp nails rip from the tips of its fingers as it moves around you, the skin splitting along its joints with soft, meaty pops. You flinch as it grabs for your shoulders, ripping through your clothes and into your skin. “Another bite,” it growls against your flesh, and tears flood your eyes as you remember its teeth sinking into your thigh, ripping into skin and blood and muscle. 

Your mouth opens, lips trembling as you gasp for breath. It’s pointless to plead for your life, you know this, and yet the words flutter on your tongue anyway.  _Please don’t kill me_ , you think, helpless and afraid, your eyes jerking from the creature’s gaping maw to the stretch of dark sky you can see though the warehouse’s rotting roof. 

The jingle of bells makes you both pause. A shiver runs through the creature’s body, shaking your own where it’s pressed up against you, and you blink frantically through the tears blurring your vision, searching,  _hoping_ -

The creature’s hand wraps around your jaw, its nails digging into your skin, and as it jerks your head to the side you suck in a ragged gasp. A tall, pale figure stands silhouetted in the entrance to the warehouse, the double doors long since rotted from their hinges and slumped against the wall. He stands still, silent, watching you both. You feel the heat of his gaze on your face, the slump of your body, the ruined flesh of your thigh.  

Despite the spots in your vision and the haze of your tears you would know that figure anywhere, and the rush of relief you feel at the sight of him terrifies you almost as much as the creature wrapped around you. 

“It tastes foul,” the creature rasps, its hot, fetid breath washing over your face. It’s nails dig bloody furrows into your skin. “Foul and dead and witless. Bleating.” Its head tilts, and you watch in horror as its mouth opens, jaws elongating with a series of wet, squelching pops. The crunch of bone against your ear makes your eyes water anew. “But not you,” it warbles, and you struggle weakly as you feel it twisting against your back,  _growing_. 

Your eyes lock onto the figure at the threshold, your breath loud in your ears, eyes wide and dazed. He hasn’t moved, though you can see his eyes, blank, blue, still fixed upon you and your captor. You croak his name, the syllables choked and wet, and the creature at your back tenses.

And then you choke in fear and desperation as long, ashen fingers cram themselves into your mouth, wrapping around your lower jaw, pressing hard against your teeth. A second hand joins the first, more fingers digging into your mouth and curling around your upper jaw, and you gurgle around your mouthful, saliva pouring down your chin, your hands scratching helplessly at the creature’s, scrabbling at its grip, unrelenting.

And then it starts to pull.

An animal keen rends the air as pain lances through your skull, down your neck, setting your entire body alight with white hot agony.

It’s going to rip you apart.

You have only a moment to experience the pure, paralyzing terror of that thought before the fingers are yanked from your mouth, jerking your head to the side, pain blooming through your skull. A great, gasping sob rips from your throat as you curl into yourself, burying your face in your hands, refusing to look up as the warehouse shakes around you.

You don’t want to see them. Something inside of you, some animal instinct, repels at the idea.  _Don’t do it_ , it seems to say, the warning singing sharp through your bones, your marrow.  _You’ll go mad if you do_.

Hollow thuds reverberate around you, shrieks of pain, the meaty squelch of flesh tearing, sinews ripping, blood spilling. The scent of it clogs your nose, the copper tang of your own and the ancient musk of theirs, and your stomach rolls, your head throbs, your body shakes. You’re falling apart.

You force yourself to listen to your breathing, the rattle of air through your lungs. You focus on nothing else. 

Until you realize that the warehouse has grown silent, save for you. Your heartbeat. Your breath. 

You raise your head. It slumps, heavy, against the wall at your back. Your eyelids flutter, flicker, open.

You look.

Red fills your vision. Red lips, red nose, stark red lines along the curve of white cheeks. Red, and black; black blood, splattered across dirty silk and stained ruffles.

You breathe shallowly, watching him. He crawls closer, his eyes, no longer blue but hot, sulfuric yellow, trained on your face. You don’t look beyond him, to the body sprawled across the floor. You don’t know what you’ll see, the creature’s true face or your own, and so you won’t see at all.

Gloved hands reach for you, folding over your thigh. Blood drips sluggishly between his fingers, staining the dirty floor below. The limb is dead weight, numb to you. Your vision wavers, but you don’t miss the spark of hunger in his eyes, the flare of his nostrils as he breathes in the scent of your blood, your fear.

“Did you kill it?” you whisper, your voice nothing but a thready gasp. Your lips hang slack as his fingers dig into your thigh. There’s no pain.

He nods. Your body slumps, eyelids heavy. The pain in your jaw fades to a faint, throbbing ache. Your hands tremble, but still you wrap them around fistfuls of gore-spattered silk. Black blood smears, cold and slick, on your skin.

You don’t ask if he’s going to kill you, too. You don’t plead for your life. You don’t even wonder if he’ll finally take his chance and drain the fear from your skin, swallow your flesh.

You just close your eyes, you breathe, and you wait. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you have a request/prompt, feel free to send me an ask on Tumblr @theawfuledges :)


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